RamkinVimes Family Portrait
by Countess Von Verminstrasser
Summary: Henry Biddle was hired to paint a portrait. However, he ends up comtemplating the Duke of Ankh and his family as well. prequel of a work in progress


"Will this room be fine?"

"Oh, yes, Your Grace--"

Duchess Sybil laughed gently. "Oh please, Mr. Biddle. There's no need for such formality. Sybil will do."

"...Are you sure that there's not some...title I could use?" Henry Biddle asked, fiddling his supplies uncomfortable.

Sybil sighed, recognizing Biddle's sort--the sort who had been trained to never imagine the nobility without some sort of title. "Would you be comfortable with 'm'lady' then," she offered.

Biddle's face ease into relief. "That is most gracious of you, m'lady. And yes, the light in here is excellent. Might I once again thank you, m'lady, for your patronage of the Painter's Guild. It is an honor to paint a Ramkin...er...Ramkin-Vimes family portrait."

"It is tradition after all," Lady Sybil agreed, watching as Henry Biddle began setting up his things. "I mean, those iconographs are perfect for everyday sort of things but what with our daughter graduating this month, the time feels right for a family portrait. Though, we are looking for a painting that's a bit more...casual than you may be used to."

"Ah, no doubt with frolicking animals and carefully arranged disheveled objects--not to worry, I have mastered the 'casual' approach--"

"No, not like that. I mean, we're all going to be dressed rather casually."

"Ah, you mean a pastoral setting then--"

"No, no, not pastoral," Lady Sybil tried to explain. She was trying as gently as she could. The others from the painting guild had been so distraught by her suggestions that they had left the residence immediately, gibbering. Sam had been very amused. "More...everyday."

The painter feel silent, trying to conjure what that meant visually.

Sybil sighed. Perhaps frankness would work better. "No finery."

"No...finery, m'lady?"

"And no special fabrics. You know, the glossy ones that catch the light?"

"But--"

"And no tulle. In fact, it would be best that at no point tulle is mentioned in the presence of my daughter."

"No tulle? But, m'lady, I have the highest marks from the Guild in painting tulle. Are you certain--"

"NO tulle."

"Of course, m'lady." Mr. Biddle said, failing to see the point of arguing with nobility, even though it didn't make him feel any better.

The others had returned to the Painters' Guild shaken to the core, to distraught to take up the brush for weeks. Henry Biddle had scoffed at them then, but now he felt as if he was staring into the inquiring face of an expectant dragon--

Oh wait, he was. Henry Biddle looked at the swamp dragon at his feet and slowly backed away. He once had an aunt who had a swamp dragon for all of two months. Then there had been a container of kerosene and now he had neither dragon or aunt anymore.

"Now now, this is NOT the time to be wandering around the house, darling!" Lady Sybil crooned, her attention diverted to the rather forlorn looking dragon sitting on the rug. She swooped down on the dragon, cradling it in her arms. It burped from the movement, and Henry's knees flinched in a desire to drop behind the sofa. "Really, I don't know HOW you got out of the pen--Willikins?"

In the fashion of any true butler, Willikins practically materialized by the Lady Sybil's side. "Ah, Willikins, do you know where Saline is?"

"I believe she is running around out in the yard, m'lady. You know how Miss Saline feels about exercise."

"Goodness, that girl must REALLY want to join up if she's RUNNING," Lady Sybil muttered. "Fetch her please, Willikins, and have her come here."

"M'lady, er...well, what are you planning on wearing then, for the sitting?" Henry asked.

"Oh...what I'm wearing now," Lady Sybil said as she petting the dragon. "We were so hoping for a portrait that really was a picture of everyday life here."

Henry began to shiver as he examined Lady Sybil's tweed. It was so...PRACTICAL. How would he ever paint it!

Henry Biddle's ancestors scoffed at him. Was he not a painter? Was it not in his blood to convert reality to canvas? And would he let TWEED hinder him?

Henry Biddle stiffened his spine, and looked Lady Sybil squarely in the eye. "An excellent decision, m'lady, it shall certainly stand out among the other Ramkin portraits."

Lady Sybil smiled, and there seemed to be relief there. "Well then, will you need any help preparing the room?"

"Oh, no, m'lady, all I need at this point is everyone in the same room. M'lady, when would His Grace--"

"Mr. Biddle, please don't address Sam as 'His Grace'--Sir Samuel is best. He prefers it, you understand?"

"Of course, m'lady," Henry said, filing it carefully under the 'How not to displease the nobility' folder in his memory. "And, when will His...SIR Samuel be home?"

"Gods, mom, I don't know how dad runs in these things, they CHAF something wicked in this heat!" A girl dressed haphazardly in a Watch uniform entered, making no secret of WHAT was being chaffed.

Henry blushed.

"Whoever thought leather was a good idea in this heat needs to be hung. I'm going to have a rash, I just know it."

Henry blushed _mightly_.

Sybil looked at her, and gasped. "What are you doing wearing your father's dress armor?" she asked.

"What? He's not wearing it. He never wears it unless he can help it. And he's not going to miss it if he's not even here to see it missing," the girl said as she took the helmet off. Her hair was soaked with sweat and stuck to her skin, and she smelled decidedly more earthy than the daughter of a Duke should smell.

"And is that grandfather's sword?" Lady Sybil asked.

"He's not using it," the girl protested as she struggled to unlatch the breastplate and unpeel the chain mail. Another wave of metallic earthiness hit Henry's nose. Though trained by his profession to ignore a lot of unpleasant smells, it was rather...pungent. "Though it is longer than standard issue--" she sighed, holding it with an air of distaste.

"Darling, just why are you running around the yard in your father's things?" Lady Sybil asked, dripping with motherly patience.

Henry turned towards setting up his easel, trying to ignore the conversation between mother and daughter. He was also trained that if nobles were talking about personal things in front of you, you didn't listen. Or at least, you didn't listen in an obvious manner.

"I'm TRAINING mother. You've got to be a good runner in the Watch, so I'm building up my lungs and legs. I just ran about the distance between the Treacle Mine Road Watch House and the Palace by way of Cable and Filigree Streets at a speed of 'full pursuit'. Not to shabby, if I must say so myself."

"Oh, really, well, did you catch the suspects then?"

The girl offered her mother a sharp grin. "Would have, if you hadn't called for me as I was turning on Upper Broadway. By now, the suspect is riding hard out of the city on the horse waiting for him at the Hubwards Gate."

"Well, just make sure that all of your father's things are clean and back in their place before he gets home." There was a pause in Lady Sybil's voice, as if she wanted to mention something. "Dear, when are you planning on telling your father?"

The girl was hesitant. "Oh, you know, Mom, when the right moment comes up."

"You aren't going to join before he knows, are you? Because that isn't_ fair_, dear. That isn't fair to your father."

"'Course mom...wouldn't dream of it..."

"Don't think I'm going to tell him. It's your job to tell him, not mine. And I'll not going to speak a word of it to him before you."

"Of course, mom," but this one was a touch softer.

Lady Sybil changed topics with the air of someone who decided that was that. "You better wash up quick, your father will be home any minute, and it's not fair to keep Mr. Biddle waiting. Ah, Mr. Biddle, this is my daughter."

He stopped fiddling with his easel, and turned. "A pleasure," he said, beginning a bow.

"I'm Saline," she said, offering her hand.

He uncertainly took her hand. "Ah, named for the moon," the painter replied, trying to flatter her.

"No, I'm not. There was a misprinting on the birth certificate," she explained, giving his hand a very no-nonsense shake.

"Oh...er...it's still a lovely name. What it means?"

"Salt water."

"Ah, well...salt of the earth, very important."

Her face became blank. She had heard it before. Probably many time before.

"I'll be back down quick, mom," she said, gathering all of her things. And then she was gone, leaving the faint smell of sweat and salt behind.

"Well, I've got to put this one back in the pen. I'll be right back, call for Willikins if you need anything."

Henry Biddle continued setting up his things, thinking. Henry Biddle was not a stupid man. Something odd was brewing in this house--he hadn't been here for more than ten minutes and already he could feel that something wasn't right.

But he shook that thought from his mind. He was here to paint, not to think.

He was meticulous in setting up his easel. Of course, today would be just the preliminary sketch, to set positions. It wouldn't take long, and then he could sit the members down individually, finishing the portrait in pieces.

He was sitting, waiting patiently for Lady Sybil when Saline entered the room. She was in a dress, a blue one at that, and one that seemed the very example of simplicity. "Mom's not back yet? Must have gotten distracted by the dragons," she had muttered, and before Henry could put in a word she was gone, back out the door.

He waited some more, looking around the room, twiddling his thumbs. It wasn't long until Lady Sybil and Saline had returned.

"Ah, Mr. Biddle, do have a seat, my husband should be home any minute now--"

"Mom, you know Dad is going to be late," Saline interrupted, sauntering over to the window.

"I'm not so sure dear, he was very adamant that he'd be home on time."

"He'll be late, he's ALWAYS--"

"Ah, Sybil, I'm not late am I?" asked Sir Samuel, entering the room. His wife greeted him with a peck on the cheek, and introduced him to Henry. Henry relaxed--the Duke of Ankh appeared to be in a good mood, seemingly at ease and grinning cheerfully. The Duke's daughter, however, looked at her father suspiciously. "You're home on time, Dad."

"Oh good. Well, it was a slow day today, and I told Carrot he was in charge if anything came up."

"One could almost say you were EARLY, Dad."

"Well, you know how much your mother has been looking forward to this. Didn't want to disappoint her."

"Dad, your grinning."

"...And?"

Saline walked over to her father as Henry prepared his charcoal and Sybil ushered them over to the seating area. "You're planning something, aren't you," she demanded in a low voice.

"What makes you say that?"

She looked at him hard. And sighed. "Try not to enjoy it TOO much Dad."

"Sybil, where's Sammy? He's not late, I hope." Sir Samuel asked, turning towards his wife.

"He said he would get off from work early, he should be here any moment. Sam?"

"Yes dear?"

"You're rather...boisterous today."

"That so, dear?"

"Yes Sam. One could even call you...jolly."

"Nothing wrong with that, dear."

Lady Sybil gave Sir Samuel a look, but let it pass.

Henry cleared his throat. "Well, as soon as the last member of the family arrives, we can--"

The door clicked. Turning around, Henry saw that a young clerk, dressed in a black suit with a high white collar, had entered the room. There was a briefcase in his hands as in order as the rest of his figure, and he smiled.

"I'm not late, am I?" Samuel Vimes Jr. asked. But there was a coolness to him that screamed that he already knew the answer and was asking for everyone's else benefit.

"You are, considering dad got here before you," Saline offered wickedly.

"Well then, let's begin!" Lady Sybil commanded, smiling.

Henry decided to place Lady Sybil and Sir Samuel in the front, sitting and slightly turned towards each other. He placed Saline standing behind Sybil, and Sammy (though Henry couldn't see how the three of them could call anyone so calculating 'Sammy') standing behind Sir Samuel.

It was easy to see how the two bloodlines had been doled out. The Ramkin blood had put some much needed meat on the Vimes bones, and the Vimes blood had given the Ramkin face some much needed definition. Though, both bloodlines had their share of formidable eyebrows.

That's where the trouble started.

"Quit it," Saline had suddenly growled, interrupting the family's stiff (which was natural, considering how hard they were trying to be motionless) conversation about their day.

"Saline, dear, what is it," Sybil asked through the plastered smile of someone trying to hold a smile.

But Saline said nothing. Sybil glanced at her children through the corner of her eye, her smile frowning a bit.

It wasn't long before Saline hissed, "_Sammy!"_

"Sammy, what are you doing?" Sybil asked plainly.

"He's doing that damned eyebrow again, that's what!" Saline said through gritted teeth.

Sammy had the eyebrow smoothed out before Sybil could see it. Henry had caught it though. He carefully added it to the sketch.

"Sammy, don't tease your sister, you're much to old for that sort of nonsense," Sybil said, laying down the line.

But soon Saline gave a noise of protest. "Sammy, if you don't stop that--"

"What have I told you about picking up bad habits at the Palace, Sam?" Sir Samuel interrupted, deadpan. He hadn't flinched at all, staring straight ahead.

Sybil smirked, rolling her eyes. Henry added that as well.

"Right, dad. It won't happen _again_."

However, he was interrupted by a quick punch to his gut which made him bow slightly.

"_Saline._ Don't hit your brother, please."

"He started it," came her glowering response.

And the Duke of Ankh smirked.

Once he split up the four of them so that he could paint them individually, the worst of the problems seemed to stop. The painting itself was easy enough. But the actual people puzzled Henry as he painted them. You began to notice things about people if you stared at them long enough. And Henry began noticing quite a bit.

Like Lady Sybil.

Lady Sybil a rock of pleasantness, that was certain. It was obvious her good humor and better upbringing was what kept the family from...drifting. For people as passionately different as Sir Samuel and his two children, it was a figure like Sybil that kept them coming home in time for family dinner. Vimeses, by their very nature, were lone wolves it seemed. But Sybil Ramkin-Vimes was very much the matriarch of their small pack.

Though Henry had never met a matriarch that smiled so much before.

Perhaps it was her smiles and gentle ways that drew them together. The three of them had a streak of protectiveness, and a woman like Sybil was a siren for protection. A woman like Sybil you wanted to protect, because in the end she'd be the one to care for you.

It took generations of work to create a mother like that.

And then there was Saline.

Though he understood that she was graduating this month from the same private school that Lady Sybil had attended, Henry was certain that Saline had had some private tutoring in subjects that were perhaps a little more worldly then a lady of breeding was expected to be knowledgeable in.

She was second after Sybil when it came to easy laughter, but there was a harsh ring to hers. Hers was the laugh of a girl trying to not go mad in a society that was already two steps to far into the loony bin. Henry had sisters, he knew how cruel girls were. And Saline had the mean look of someone who had been on the wrong side of her social circles for too long and wanted justice for it.

It was so obvious that she was trying for the Watch. It was even obvious WHY is was trying for the Watch. Henry doubted if she could have fitted among ANY female clique. He wasn't painting a girl, he was painting a force. She sat as if she was a bundle of nerves, waiting to jump to do something, anything! Energy like that needed to be used up, or else.

When he had commented about her sharp, heart-shaped face, Henry had heard Sir Samuel muttering under his breath that Saline had the face of his mother. Supposedly there were some things that a fine house and a fine bringing up couldn't iron out of heredity. There were some things so engrained that they HAD to be passed on, and that seemed to worry Sir Samuel. After all, she was his little girl, and there were some things you never wanted to see your children become.

And there was Sammy.

He wore his clerk outfit out of spite, Henry was certain of that. Everyone knew that aside from white on white, black on black was the second hardest thing to paint. How did you paint shadows when all he was _was_ one great big bloody one?

But Henry persevered, regardless.

The younger Sam had a slowness that was the result of a brain moving too fast for its' own damn good. His rare questions and comments exhausted Henry. His smirks made him stutter and drop his brush.

As he understood it, after graduating from the Assassins' Guild, Sam began work as a clerk--he was now working in the Palace. And probably learning from the best.

Sam Jr. was unsettling, but just because he acted so. If you weren't a painter, you would have missed the way he relaxed around his family, and how the facade was dropped. Henry realized with quite a shock that Sam only acted like he was carefully plotting to take over Ankh Morpork because--well first cause it seemed like he honestly WAS plotting that--but also because it was what would be expected. He bloody well gave people what they expected of the son of the second most powerful man in Ankh Morpork. He gave them an act of a devious politician in training, and he was so good at it, he _was_.

To be honest, Henry was awed by the twenty year old.

But he was floored by the father.

THIS was where Saline and Sam had gotten their most distinguishable traits. There was so much to Sir Samuel that it had to be siphoned between two children, so that all those different bits collected over a lifetime could finally be put to use.

There was no laughter in Sir Samuel, but there was a bitter irony, which on occasion could inspire a chuckle, or even a guffaw. Whenever he sat for his portrait, he was always serviceably clean. His Watch uniform was worn, but clean. His face was worn, but clean. His soul was worn, but he'd be damned if after all those years it wasn't the cleanest bit. He had scrubbed it for too long to be anything less.

He never said much, but Henry had won his favor by telling him the first day that he could smoke, provided he didn't move TOO much. Henry was rewarded by a relaxed Sir Samuel, who occasional asked questions, but never unpleasantly.

For the Commander of the City Watch, he was a very ordinary looking man, even rather...old. But his presence was staggering. One look at his sharp, dark eyes and Henry felt it wasn't safe keeping a man like that in one room for too long.

Henry would look at the portrait every day before he'd start working, and shudder slightly. He was looking into some of the most powerful minds of the city, and he knew he wouldn't walk away unscathed.

It took him a month and three days to finish it, but finish it he did. He presented it to them quietly, and without fuss. They were all impressed, and expressed it in their own ways. Sybil gushed, Saline stared at it hard, Sammy looked at him, and Sir Samuel smoked in silence.

"Sir Samuel, Lady Sybil...it has been an honor," Henry Biddle said. He shook their hands, and he took their leave.

He had heard it said amongst the masters of the guild that if you were truly lucky, and also completely unfortunate, one day you would paint a _masterpiece. _After that, you would still paint, but there would be nothing that could rival it. It would be your best work, and though you would try to keep working, it would haunt you, and you'd know that you'd never create or encounter anything so amazing ever again. And it would be a death for you, but also a new life. You had painted something that would LAST. Something that people would still be talking about long after you were gone.

The Ramkin-Vimes had been that death for him. But without regret he toasted them, on the nights that melancholy overcame him.

He toasted the future of Ankh Morpork.

Saline and Biddle are mine. You know the rest belong to Terry Pratchett.


End file.
